Ideally my steaming mug of rose tea

would be brought to me

and sweetly served.

The steam would waft lazily above the

flaky croissants bathed in a liquid honey bath.

The sweet, pink bouquet would smile cheerfully

and fill my room with pleasantries that please my

smell and my soul.

Sunk into plush pillows and buried under

colorful, flannel-backed quilts, the dulcet crooning of

“As Time Goes By” drank in every drink sipped.

a tender kiss given

that taste just

like butter

and warming me

just as well as the cheery sun’s rays

casting light whimsically and well.